


there’s something wrong in the village

by VeryImportantDemon



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Backstory, Eliot is drunk and high, Eliot’s backstory, Gen, M/M, Quentin is a Good Friend, Utilizes some info from the books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 23:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18353798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryImportantDemon/pseuds/VeryImportantDemon
Summary: There was something wrong with the look in Eliot’s eyes. They were hollow, rimmed with dark circles. His hair was unkempt and messy, his face pale. He didn’t look put together like the Eliot he knew.“El,” Quentin repeated as Eliot downed the entire glass in one go.Eliot lowered the empty glass, opening his mouth as if he was debating answering. He half-shrugged before admitting as if it were a secret in a game of truth or dare, “My dad died.”





	there’s something wrong in the village

**Author's Note:**

> Eliot’s backstory - including crappy parents - is mentioned but nothing too graphic or into detail.

The monotony of studying was getting to Quentin. He’d been at it for hours, bent over thick tomes in dead languages, his fingers cramping as he drilled the motions for spells again and again and  _ again. _ He was bored with studying and he needed an excuse to stop. That excuse came in the form of Eliot Waugh. 

 

“You want to go get drunk?” Eliot asked. Quentin looked up from the book on his lap a little surprised to see Eliot. He hadn’t heard the older man even enter the room.

 

“God, yes,” he said, already snapping the book shut and standing. He tossed the book into the air where its covers fluttered dramatically and it flew to its spot on the shelf. There were some perks to having magic books.

 

Eliot was already yammering on again. “Good,” he said. “We’re going to grab a few signature cocktails and do lines and then hit a couple bars in the city. I want to be absolutely fucking shitfaced by the end of the night. Actually, no. In about an hour I want to be so fucked over I don’t remember any of this tomorrow.” 

 

Quentin frowned as he rose to his feet, popping his knuckles. That sounded a little more self-destructive than the self-destructive Eliot was known for but by the time he straightened up, Eliot was already at the bar, his head down and expertly making the signature cocktails the Physical Cottage was known for. “El,” he said cautiously, “what’s the occasion?”

 

Eliot shrugged, holding out a drink to Quentin. “No reason,” he said. “Can’t a guy just want to get drunk with one of his best friends?” 

 

Quentin took the glass, frowning. There wasn’t anything wrong with that but there was something wrong with the look in Eliot’s eyes. They were hollow, rimmed with dark circles. His hair was unkempt and messy, his face pale. He didn’t look put together like the Eliot he knew.

 

“El,” Quentin repeated as Eliot downed the entire glass in one go. 

 

Eliot lowered the empty glass, opening his mouth as if he was debating answering. He half-shrugged before admitting as if it were a secret in a game of truth or dare, “My dad died.”

 

Quentin sucked in a breath as Eliot abandoned the empty glass, taking a swig from the flask that never emptied in his pocket. “Eliot,” he said suddenly. The flask was put away and he was bent over pulling what looked like pills out from somewhere under the bar. “Eliot,  _ slow down _ ,” Quentin interrupted. 

 

Eliot looked up from his task, arching an eyebrow. “Why?” he asked, straightening up. 

 

“Eliot, slow the fuck down,” Quentin said. “For just a minute. Slow. Down.”

 

Eliot heaved a sigh, straightening up and leaning against the bar facing Q. “Buzzkill,” he said. “I’ll go on my own.”

 

“No, I’m coming,” Quentin said suddenly. He knew instinctively that he couldn’t let Eliot go on this bender alone. Someone needed to watch him. “I’m coming. We just need to slow the fuck down, okay?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Eliot straightened up. “Fine,” he said. “I already took something called Bojack before I came downstairs.” He turned from their bar towards the door before Quentin stopped him again. 

 

“Why don’t we just stay here?” he asked cautiously. “We can drink here and we’ve already paid for all the liquor.” 

 

_ And,  _ Quentin thought,  _ I can watch you. _

 

Eliot thought for a few beats, his head tilted slightly. “You do make a good point,” he said, turning back for the bar. Quentin didn’t think he’d seen Eliot stop moving since he’d come down the stairs and he hadn’t stopped yet.  

 

Eliot plucked a bottle of some amber liquid from the shelf, taking a swig. He held it out to Quentin. “Want some?”

 

Silently, Quentin took the bottle, drinking just enough to get the taste. He needed to be mostly sober for this. He needed to keep an eye on Eliot. 

 

Taking the bottle back, Eliot meandered towards the sofa, dropping onto and draping himself over it. “Sit with me, Q,” he whined. “Come on, I’m lonely.”

 

When he got drunk or high, Eliot got clingy. Quentin knew this very well because he’d often been on the receiving end. He’d been dragged around, laid on, and/or had Eliot’s hand on his shoulder or his arm. He was clingy when he was sober, but when he was drunk? That particular day was not an exception because as soon as Quentin sat down on the sofa, Eliot was pressed against him, sitting up against Quentin’s chest and taking another swig straight from the bottle. 

 

“You’re a good friend, Curly Q,” Eliot said with a slight giggle. Quentin stiffened slightly at the nickname but he led it slide past. Eliot was drunk. He was high. He didn’t really know.

 

“Have you had anything to drink already?” he asked, taking the bottle from Eliot and taking a swig. 

 

Eliot shrugged. “A little,” he said. “Or a lot, I think. I can’t remember. But I got bored drinking myself. S’why I wanted to go out with you.”

 

His words were starting to slur together so Quentin knew the correct answer was far closer to a lot. He made grabby hands like a child and, with a sigh, Quentin started to hand over the bottle again. He stopped and retracted his hand, causing Eliot to whine a lot like Quentin imagined a dog would. “El. How much did you drink?” 

 

Eliot shrugged. “I don’t know,” he insisted. “There was… There was definitely tequila.” 

 

“How many shots?” he insisted. “I need a ballpark.”

 

“...One,” Eliot said after thinking for what seemed like not very long to him but was excruciatingly long for Quentin. 

 

“One?” Quentin repeated skeptically. “You took one shot?”

 

“Nope,” Eliot said and he fell silent. Quentin definitely got the impression he was dealing with a petulant child.

 

“Then how many, El?” he insisted.

 

“One bottle,” Eliot clarified. “It was really nice tequila, too.” 

 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Quentin said, resolved not to let his friend drink anymore. “That’s already a lot. Why don’t you go to bed, hm?”

 

Stubbornly, Eliot shook his head. “I don’t wanna,” he said. “Told you. I don’t wanna remember anything.”

 

Quentin sighed softly. One thing he learned very quickly was that drunk Eliot was essentially a toddler. A petulant child who either didn’t know what was best for him or knew and simply decided to keep drinking anyway. Margo was off working on her thesis project so it was left to Quentin to be the mature one. 

 

At least it was better than studying for any number of agonizing hours more. 

 

“Fine,” Quentin said. “But you’re going to stay here. Do you want me to put on a movie?” 

 

Eliot thought about that for a few beats before answering. “Yeah,” he said, and then he and Quentin spoke at the same time. 

 

“Dirty Dancing.”

 

Eliot sat up, his eyes wide. “Oh my god,” he said. “How did you know I was finna way that? Are you physic?” 

 

Quentin sighed, standing up and striding towards the TV. “It’s your favorite movie. You once quoted the movie at me when we were both crossfaded and you thought you were telling me a bedtime story.”

 

“Oh,” Eliot said, sinking back down onto the sofa. “That sounds like something I’d do.”

 

Quentin shook his head, sticking the DVD into the player and sinking back onto the couch. He took a swig from the bottle he’d confiscated from Eliot, wincing at the taste. Whatever it was, it was strong. “Fuck, El,” he said as the movie started to play. 

 

Eliot shrugged, reaching towards his hip under his jacket. Quentin immediately reached out, freeing the flask to Eliot’s dismay. “No,” Quentin said firmly, feeling a lot like a cat owner when he put the flask and the bottle behind him and out of reach. 

 

“You’re no fun,” Eliot said, crossing his arms and pouting. 

 

“I don’t want you to kill yourself,” Quentin said, sighing. “Just shut up and watch your Swayze.”

 

Eliot huffed, snuggling down into the couch with his head in Quentin’s lap. His arms were folded across his chest and he was staring at the ceiling and not the movie. He’d get over it, Quentin thought, trying to pay attention himself. It was a pretty good movie. 

 

He didn’t get too far into it because of Eliot. The day when he didn’t pay attention to any movie with Patrick Swayze in it was a day something was very wrong. Peering over, he noticed Eliot was staring blankly at the ceiling. His eyes were unfocused and glassy and he was almost crying. Eliot only cried when something was very wrongs there was definitely something up here that he wasn’t saying. 

 

“El,” Quentin said. There was no response. He touched Eliot’s shoulder lightly, the man flinching violently and almost headbutting Quentin. “Fuck, El, it’s just me,” he said. “Calm down!”

 

Eliot sighed, settling back down. “No,” he said. “I don’t…” He trailed off. “I guess I do wanna. I can’t think straight.” He laughed out loud. “Maybe it’s ‘cause I’m not straight…”

 

He fell into a contemplative silence, broken only by Quentin sighing. “Eliot,” he said softly. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothin’,” Eliot said stubbornly. He glanced over at the TV, exclaiming. “Why didn’t you tell me you started it?! I missed the whole beginning…”

 

“I did tell you I started it,” Quentin said patiently. “20 minutes ago. Come on, sit up.” He put another hand on Eliot’s shoulder, easing the complaining magician to a sitting position. “Look at me.” 

 

Eliot pulled his eyes low, watching the movie instead of Quentin. “Hey,” He said. “Eliot. Look at me.” 

 

Finally, the childlike drunk looked up. His eyes were glittering with unshed tears. “I’m fine,” Eliot said. 

 

Quentin laughed. “El, as a professionally mentally ill person, I know that no one who says they’re fine is fine.” 

 

Eliot thought about that for a few beats before he spoke. “Okay,” he said. “I’m not fine. My father is dead and I killed him.”

 

Quentin blinked in surprise. “Whoa, whoa,” he said. “Back up. You did what?”

 

“I killed him,” Eliot said simply. “My dad is dead and I killed him.”

 

Quentin sighed softly. “You’re gonna have to back up farther than that. What happened to your dad?” 

 

“Henry told me,” Eliot said. “He just found out. Three weeks ago my dad died. Heart attack. They took him to the hospital, buried him, everything, didn’t tell me a damn thing. Because they don’t care about me and I don’t care about them.” Eliot fell silent and Quentin stayed quiet, not wanting to disturb the moment. It was Eliot’s moment, not his. “But I’m still sad,” he said, like he was questioning it himself. He swiped angrily at his eyes, trying to clear the tears. “Why am I still sad?”

 

“I don’t know,” Quentin said softly. “Parents are weird. It’s… At the risk of sounding too… Therapist, do you… Wanna talk about it?”

 

Eliot considered the offer. “Will it help?” he asked. 

 

Quentin shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “Can’t hurt to try.” 

 

“I suppose not,” Eliot said. He took another few, long bests of silence to gather his thoughts. 

 

“You must take this to your grave, Quentin,” he said seriously. “The only other person who has heard my entire sordid tale is Margo and I made her swear the same.”

 

“Okay, okay, I will,” Quentin said. “I will…”

 

“You have to swear,” Eliot said. He grabbed Quentin’s hands, squeezing them tight. The look in his eyes was downright desperate. “Word as bond.”

 

That was extreme. Eliot was way too drunk to cast a word as bond. It was serious spellwork and Quentin really didn’t think he should let him. But Eliot was determined to have Quentin’s word. “Okay,” Quentin said finally. “Okay. Just… Let me go draw up the sigils, alright?” Quentin stood up, shaking loose of Eliot’s hands and pausing to turn back to him. “Don’t move.” 

 

“I won’t,” Eliot said, turning his hands over in his lap. 

 

Quentin turned towards the bar quickly, snatching up a piece of parchment. He spread the paper out, grabbing a pen from underneath the bar and scribbling out the sigils. He was going to draw out everything so it looked like a word as bond but leave out a few of the smaller elements, hoping Eliot wouldn’t notice. He was so drunk that hopefully he wouldn’t notice a sigil not getting burned into his palm. He returned to the sofa with the parchment, spreading it out on the coffee table.

 

“Where’s the knife?” Eliot asked. Giving drunk Eliot a knife wasn’t a good idea. Even sober he had a constant, low-key death wish.

 

“Just pull a hangnail off or something,” Quentin said. Any amount of blood would suffice, especially since it wasn’t real. 

 

Eliot huffed, tugging part of his nail off with his teeth. He wiped the smear of blood on the sigil, patiently looking up at Quentin, his eyes still dark and hollow and desperate. Quentin stuck his thumb in his mouth, pulling a hangnail off and smearing his blood on the opposite sigil. He pressed his hand down, waiting for Eliot to do the same. When he had, they both pulled back. On Eliot’s hand was the imprint of the sigil in wet ink. 

 

“Okay,” Eliot said, turning towards Quentin and sighing. “You may have heard me say that I am my greatest creative project.”

 

“Yeah,” Quentin said. He remembered vaguely hearing that once or twice. Eliot was a very creative person so Quentin wasn’t entirely surprised. His wardrobe was carefully curated for every possible opportunity. His hair was always styled. Even his personality around people he didn’t consider friends seemed like he’d created it, too. Eliot was an artist and he was his canvas. 

 

“I built this,” Eliot said. He swallowed hard, like it actually pained him to go far back in his history. “I built who I am from the ground up. Because I was…” He faltered. “I was born in Indiana.”

 

Quentin frowned. He hadn’t expected Indiana. Eliot seemed so metropolitan that Quentin had expected that he’d been raised in New York City or London or Paris. But, he supposed, if Quentin has believed that, Eliot was believable. 

 

“My parents are paid not to grow soybeans,” Eliot continued. “We lived on a farm. I have three brothers.”

 

“Wait,” Quentin said. “You have brothers?” 

 

Eliot hummed, nodding. “There’s a reason I don’t talk about them. My brothers are magnificent physical specimens who pity me.” His lip curled at that, resentment clear in his eyes. “They pity me because I’m different. I don’t look like them, act like them… But fuck them,” Eliot snapped, derision palpable in his tone. “Fuck them. Fuck them because I have magic. I’m a magician. I’m a fucking  _ magician.” _ Eliot stopped, his voice cracking. He sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Fuck, I’m not crying,” he said, balling his fists. “I’m not crying.” He took a deep breath, lurching forward again into his story. Quentin knew what he was feeling - if he stopped, he’d never start again.

 

“My dad doesn’t know what happened to me,” Eliot explained. “Three perfect meathead sons and then me. He thinks he chewed too much dip before I was conceived and that’s why I came out fucked up.” He sighed, shaking his head. “God, he hated me. I did theatre, which wasn’t masculine enough. I got a concussion the one and only time I touched a football. I was just a fuck up.” Eliot let out another puff of air, tearing up unconsciously. Quentin knee it was unconsciously because Eliot never cried, not if he could help it. “I was a fuck up and he couldn’t… Couldn’t beat me into being better.”

 

Quentin’s heart sank. He knew there was animosity between Eliot and his father but hearing outright what had happened between them still hurt. But he didn’t speak, not wanting to break the moment.

 

“My parents think I’m at some special school for computer geeks and homosexuals,” Eliot continued. “So they’re partially right, I suppose. That’s why I never go home. Have you ever noticed that?” 

 

“Yeah,” Quentin said, trying to hang onto every detail of the story as best as he could. “I mean, no. You do leave.”

 

“Don’t go home,” he said. “I’m here or I go somewhere with Margo. I haven’t been home since I started here.” Eliot laughed bitterly at that. Some people need their families to become who they’re meant to be,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. But there are other ways to do it.” 

 

Quentin couldn’t tell if Eliot’s next silence was intentional or if he’d faltered and tried to pass it off as meaning it. 

 

“I’m-” Quentin started but Eliot cut him off. 

 

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Eliot said. “If you say you’re sorry, we’re not friends anymore.”

 

“I wasn’t going to say I’m sorry,” Quentin said, holding his hands up in a peaceful gesture. “I was going to say I’m here.”

 

Eliot was quiet for a long time and Quentin was, too. This wasn’t his conversation to dictate. It was Eliot’s. 

 

“He was so disappointed in me that it killed him,” Eliot said softly. “Not when he had a heart attack, though. I killed him years ago. He was so… So fucking disappointed in me that it killed him.”

 

Quentin hesitated, wanting to reach out and touch Eliot but not wanting to over step his boundaries. They were very good friends but this was something else. He didn’t have much of a chance to speak before Eliot started again. 

 

“I hated him,” Eliot said. “God, I hated him. I still do. I hate him and I’m glad he’s dead, but I’m still… I’m still sad.” He looked up at Quentin, really truly crying now. “Why am I still sad?”

 

Quentin after instinctively, opening his arms. Eliot turned towards them like a plant to the sun, falling against his chest, squeezing Quentin like he was a life preserver and Eliot was lost at sea. In a way, he was. 

 

“I don’t know,” Quentin said, holding Eliot tight. His hand was knotted in dark curls and Eliot’s head was pressed against Quentin’s shoulder as Eliot started to cry in earnest. “I really don’t know, Eliot. But it’s okay to be upset, okay? It’s okay to be upset. He was father and he… He sucked serious ass. But he was still your father. He was your only chance to have a dad and he kind of fucked it up for you. So you get to be upset that he’s gone.” His spiel our in the open, Quentin fell silent, content to sit on the sofa and hold Eliot as long as he needed to be held. 

 

Eliot seemed content to stay there, too, even after he had stopped crying because he didn’t try to move. It was only about 5 minutes after Quentin started holding Eliot that Quentin realized he was asleep. “Must be feeling better,” he said softly. That was when Quentin began the slow and arduous process of trying to get up without waking Eliot.

 

He was tired himself by the time he got Eliot flat on the sofa and was debating going up to his room when Eliot spoke. It wasn’t entirely clear, soft and slurred, but Quentin was able to make it out. “I lied,” he said. 

 

Quentin frowned, turning back towards the sofa. “Lied?” he repeated.

 

“I said I didn’t need my family to become who I was supposed to be,” Eliot said, blinking up at Quentin. “But I did. And it was you.”

 

Quentin smiled softly, reaching behind the sofa and pulling a quilt off. He tucked it around Eliot’s tall, lanky frame, giving in to the urge to brush a dark curl from Eliot’s forehead. “Goodnight, El,” he said. 

 

“Night, Q,” Eliot murmured, already snuggling into the couch. “Love you.”

 

Love wasn’t a word Eliot Waugh threw around lightly but it seemed Quentin was lucky enough catch it. 

 

He woke up in his bed the next morning, blinking sleepily in the sun. Quentin didn’t know what woke him until he got sight of Eliot shuffling down the hall in the same clothes Quentin had put him to bed in last night. He was rumpled and tired, his hair flat on one side. He stopped, backtracking to stand in Quentin’s doorway. Quentin noticed then that Eliot had a piece of parchment in one hand. He held it up. “Did we do a word as bond last night?”

 

“Sorta,” Quentin said, sitting up and frowning. “You wanted to do one so I wouldn’t tell anyone anything you were gonna tell me. But you were so crossfaded I didn’t want you to do anything that serious.”

 

“Huh,” Eliot said, shifting his weight slightly, one knee bent. “Are you, uh… You aren’t telling anyone, though, right?” 

 

“I wouldn’t,” Quentin said. “You know me.”

 

“God help me but I do,” Eliot said, sighing dramatically. “Move, Q. I’m coming in.” Quentin barely had time to shift before Eliot flung himself down onto the bed. 

 

“I have the worst headache,” Eliot said. “But I don’t think I regret it.

 

“Me, too, El,” Quentin said. 


End file.
